


Something Like This

by liveandlove1989



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: F/F, Fluff, Healing, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-19
Updated: 2020-04-19
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:22:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23730763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/liveandlove1989/pseuds/liveandlove1989
Summary: ""Lydia," comes a tiny voice, choked with emotion. You turn your gaze to the entryway. "I am... glad, to see you awake," she murmurs. "I did what I could to mend your wounds, but some of them...""No, my Thane. You did more than I could have asked.""Lydia is hurt during a delve into a draugr-infested dungeon and the Dragonborn does what she can to help.
Relationships: Female Dovahkiin | Dragonborn/Lydia
Comments: 2
Kudos: 42





	Something Like This

There is crimson overtaking your vision. The sound of metal on metal, of a cry unlike anything human fills your head. You drop unceremoniously to one knee, the grip on your sword waning even as its point digs into the earth. Each breath in feels like an unnamable agony, and when you dip your fingertips between the chinks of your armor they come away red. A curse leaves your lips only seconds before a hacking cough leads blood to do the same.

Something shrieks. It is close and it is loud and it sounds like death. A heavy thud follows, the clattering of a weapon. You wish you could look up to ensure it was the right thud, but your head feels heavier than your sworn duties to the Dragonborn ever have.

A moment passes. Just one, but is it enough. The air is alive with something like electricity, would taste almost sweet if not for the copper along your tongue. Your grip finally fails and your blade falls uselessly to your side. Cold; it washes through you quickly, and as you unsteadily crumple onto your shoulder you wonders if this - this silent emptiness - is what it means to die.

But then the light you could still see even through the haze is blocked by a silhouette. It is small, thin, and you think there may be hands atop your arm, a murmur that sounds oddly like a plea. In an attempt to blink you find that your eyelids have become weighted.

You allow your head to lull. Then there is a warmth even as the murmuring continuing, and you aren't sure if there are still hands or not but it doesn't really matter. You suck in a breath. You smell leather.

Everything goes dark.

* * *

It is a horse that awakens you, of all things. Not loud, perhaps not even close, and yet it is enough to pull you from the throes of unconsciousness. You come to with the knowledge that you are on a bed, beneath a thick sheet made from the hide of a previous hunt. The area is quiet and still, and so are you because when you go to simply sit up your ribs scream in a way that has you hissing through clenched teeth.

So you lay there, and blink, and eye the room when it comes into focus. This is... familiar. This is... home.

You start at the realization. That you are back in Whiterun, in bed. That you are safe, and alive.

The creaking of steps alert you to the entry of another. Out of reflex you begin to twist to reach for your sword, but even had your ribs not halted the motion you would have found that you were defenseless regardless. Where it should be leaned against your trunk, there is no blade. Instinct turns to curiosity. Then to worry. You pray you did not leave your blade in the catacombs, if for no other reason than because it was a gift from your Thane.

"Lydia," comes a tiny voice, choked with emotion.

You turn your gaze to the entryway. Standing there, underneath the golden light streaming through the high window, is the Dragonborn. She is small, so small without her armor, and there is this something in her dark amber eyes that looks broken as she takes in the sight of her companion in bed. Her hands clasp the flask she is carrying tighter, and she offers a smile too forced to be considered as such. Her steps are light as she crosses the wooden floor, shoe-less and toned just as dark as the rest of her ebony skin.

Your breath catches for a reason not quite linked to the burning in your chest. "My Thane," you breathe, but it is rough and edged from vocals that have seen too little use for however long. You flinch and attempt to clear your throat.

The Elven woman shakes her head - she has asked more than once for the title to be dropped, forgotten, but you cannot, for honor has been carved so deeply into your being it might as well be a part of your blood. But she doesn't mention it this time. Instead she sets the flask down atop the dressers and leans in, one hand poised to steady her, the other just barely ghosting across your forehead. You are warm, but the fever that raged for days on end seems to have settled.

Her eyes flicker down and meet are watching her, studying her. Always. She feels the skin of her neck flush as she moves back. "I am... glad, to see you awake," she murmurs. "I did what I could to mend your wounds, but some of them..." Her voice trails off as she thinks back to the broken, battered soul she dragged from those halls. To see such a soldier go down, even to a Draugr king, was brutal. She gives that same not-smile again. "I suppose there is still much for me to learn in regards to restoration.

You shake your head. "No, my Thane. You did more than I could have asked." Even getting through the words doesn't manage to ebb the wheeze that seems to build in your lungs, and turning your head sharply you start to cough. It is rugged and hurts, hurts your throat and your chest and your stomach, and the hand you bring up to cover your mouth shakes even more than the rest of you does.

The Dragonborn winces but instinctively reaches out to help. Her hands glow white with healing as she rubs soothing circles down your back, bare save the thin strip of clothe she left as a means to save you your dignity. She has not changed it since the incident, and the brownish stains of nearly lost life winding along the bottom prove that.

It takes a little under a full minute for you to gather your bearings again, but even when you do your Thane does not stop the healing. It's a warmth that traverses through the whole of your being, familiar and welcome and forcing the pain to fade, if slowly. You are grateful, more so than you can put into words. Especially right now.

The Elf sighs. So quiet that it is almost lost under the sound of your unintentionally raspy breaths. But you do hear it, and you glance back to find the woman's eyes shut.

She is so beautiful. Soft and round in a way that has led you to realize she is only half Elf. She has the skin and the ears but that's all - her eyes aren't the intimidating crimson of the Dunmer. Her facial structure isn't sharp, isn't long. Everything is muted, but in a way that makes her uniquely divine.

You realized quickly that you could watch this woman for eternity and never tire of it.

You yourself blink, look away in shame at your own thoughts when you finds yourself questioning the young woman. Questioning why. Your Thane - Rheilin, as the woman has tried so hard to be known as - has no obligation to care for you as she does. The only one that should be willing to sacrifice health and life in this room is you.

The healing stops. Your body still aches, but there is more peace there than there was before. More throbbing than burning. It is a start. You relax back against the pillows, only then noticing how there are more than you brought with you when you moved in. They aren't your own. Perhaps your Thane gifted them for your comfort. The thought is enough to have you scowling down at the furs you bunch in her hand.

Rheilin watches you quietly. Takes in the clench of your jaw, the indignant crease to your brow. She recognizes it as something other than pain, but can't unstick her tongue to ask. So instead she straightens. Your gaze jerks to her. She reaches and takes the small, convoluted flask she brought with her, unscrews the cork and offers it.

"Drink it," she requests. When hesitation flickers through your dark, searching eyes, she gives her first genuine simper. "It is a healing potion. I can assure you, I would not have gone through all this trouble just to poison you now."

You visibly calm, and a tiny return grin dares to upturn your lips. You still eye the bottle, however. "Of course, my Thane. Forgive me." You take the potion with an unsteady hand, but do not wait in downing it. Your features screw up in disgust, but you are too prideful to complain, and only give the bottle back when it is empty.

The look she gives you as she reaches to deposit the flask is one of gratitude - perhaps the simple fact that you trust her enough to drink her concoctions is more than required to make her happy. Regardless of the bitterness that settles along the back of your tongue, you would drink a million of those to see her contented.

"Thank you," she murmurs, and you start to answer but find a yawn creeping upon you; it is strange, you think, to have gone so long in bed and discover yourself still tired. But your Thane just laughs quietly at the way your face screws up and places a feather-light touch across your shoulder. "You should rest a bit longer. I promise to remain within the city walls so long as you promise to not push yourself more than necessary. Deal?"

You hum your consent, settling back against the pillows and allowing her to tug the furs up around you. "I promise, my Thane. But if you need me-"

"Then I will come get you," she finishes, and you catch the way the corners of her eyes crinkle in amusement. You trust that she will do so, know from experience she is a woman of worth; her word is more than enough to go on.

Another hum and she bows her head to you, stands slowly and turns towards the door. She does not turn back, and you watch her until she slips out of sight and you can hear the stairs beneath her feet creak. The potion is slow acting - you still cannot feel its effect but you do know that when you wake, your body will be grateful for her help. _You_ are grateful.

Your eyelids flutter closed, and the last thoughts that cross your mind's eye are of Rheilin.


End file.
